It was a relief to Stephen and Nevill to see one of the horsemen coming
up the rough hill-track to the gate, and to think that they need no
longer wait upon the fears or inhospitable whims of the Arab servants on
the other side of the wall.
As soon as the rider came near enough for his features to be sketched in
clearly, Nevill remembered having noticed him at one or two of the
Governor's balls, where all Arab dignitaries, even such lesser lights as
caïds and adels show themselves. But they had never met. The man was not
one of the southern chiefs whom Nevill Caird had entertained at his own
house.
Stephen thought that he had never seen a more personable man as the Caïd
rode up to the car, saluting courteously though with no great warmth.
His face was more tanned than very dark by nature, but it seemed brown
in contrast to his light hazel eyes. His features were commanding, if
not handsome, and he sat his horse well. Altogether he was a notable
figure in his immensely tall white turban, wound with pale grey-brown
camel's-hair rope, his grey cloth burnous, embroidered with gold, flung
back over an inner white burnous, his high black boots, with wrinkled
brown tops, and his wonderful Kairouan hat of light straw, embroidered
with a leather appliqué of coloured flowers and silver leaves,
steeple-crowned, and as big as a cart-wheel, hanging on his shoulders.
He and Nevill politely wished the blessings of Allah and Mohammed his
Prophet upon each other, and Nevill then explained the errand which had
brought him and his friend to the Caïd's house.
The Caïd's somewhat heavy though intelligent face did not easily show
surprise. It changed not at all, though Stephen watched it closely.
"Thou art welcome to hear all I can tell of my dead relation, Ben
Halim," he said. "But I know little that everybody does not know."
"It is certain, then, that Ben Halim is dead?" asked Nevill. "We had
hoped that rumour lied."
"He died on his way home after a pilgrimage to Mecca," gravely replied
the Caïd.
"Ah!" Nevill caught him up quickly. "We heard that it was in
Constantinople."
Ben Sliman's expression was slightly strained. He glanced from Nevill's
boyish face to Stephen's dark, keen one, and perhaps fancied suspicion
in both. If he had intended to let the Englishmen drive away in their
motor-car without seeing the other side of his white wall, he now
changed his mind. "If thou and thy friend care to honour this poor farm
of mine by entering the gates, and drinking coffee with me," he said,
"We will afterwards go down below the hill to the cemetery where my
cousin's body lies buried. His tombstone will show that he was El Hadj,
and that he had reached Mecca. When he was in Constantinople, he had
just returned from there."
Possibly, having given the invitation by way of proving that there was
nothing to conceal, Ben Sliman hoped it would not be accepted; but he
was disappointed. Before the Caïd had reached the top of the hill,
Nevill had told his chauffeur to stop the motor, therefore the restless
panting had long ago ceased, and when Ben Sliman looked doubtfully at
the car, as if wondering how it was to be got in without doing damage to
his wall, Nevill said that the automobile might stay where it was. Their
visit would not be long.
"But the longer the better," replied the Caïd. "When I have guests, it
pains me to see them go."
He shouted a word or two in Arabic, and instantly the gates were opened.
The sketchily clad brown men inside had only been waiting for a signal.
"I regret that I cannot ask my visitors into the house itself, as I have
illness there," Ben Sliman announced; "but we have guest rooms here in
the gate-towers. They are not what I could wish for such distinguished
personages, but thou canst see, Sidi, thou and thy friend, that this is
a simple farmhouse. We make no pretension to the luxury of towns, but we
do what we can."
As he spoke, the brown men were scuttling about, one unfastening the
door of a little tower, which stuck as if it had not been opened for a
long time, another darting into the house, which appeared silent and
tenantless, a third and fourth running to a more distant part, and
vanishing also through a dark doorway.
The Caïd quickly ushered his guests into the tower room, but not so
quickly that the eyes of a girl, looking through a screened window, did
not see and recognize both. The servant who had gone ahead unbarred a
pair of wooden shutters high up in the whitewashed walls of the tower,
which was stiflingly close, with a musty, animal odour. As the opening
of the shutters gave light, enormous black-beetles which seemed to
Stephen as large as pigeon's eggs, crawled out from cracks between wall
and floor, stumbling awkwardly about, and falling over each other. It
was a disgusting sight, and did not increase the visitors' desire to
accept the Caïd's hospitality for any length of time. It may be that he
had thought of this. But even if he had, the servants were genuinely
enthusiastic in their efforts to make the Roumis at home. The two who
had run farthest returned soonest. They staggered under a load of large
rugs wrapped in unbleached sheeting, and a great sack stuffed full of
cushions which bulged out at the top. The sheeting they unfastened,
and, taking no notice of the beetles, hurriedly spread on the rough
floor several beautifully woven rugs of bright colours. Then, having
laid four or five on top of one another, they clawed the cushions out of
the sack, and placed them as if on a bed.
Hardly had they finished, when the first servant who had disappeared
came back, carrying over his arm a folding table, and dishes in his
hands. The only furniture already in the tower consisted of two long,
low wooden benches without backs; and as the servant from the house set
up the folding table, he who had opened the windows placed the benches,
one on either side. At the same moment, through the open door, a man
could be seen running with a live lamb flung over his shoulder.
"Good heavens, what is he going to do with that?" Stephen asked,
stricken with a presentiment.
"I'm afraid," Nevill answered quickly in English, "that it's going to be
killed for our entertainment." His pink colour faded, and in Arabic he
begged the Caïd to give orders that, if the lamb were for them, its life
be spared, as they were under a vow never to touch meat. This was the
first excuse he could think of; and when, to his joy, a message was sent
after the slayer of innocence, he added that, very unfortunately, they
had a pressing engagement which would tear them away from the Caïd's
delightful house all too soon.
Perhaps the Caïd's face expressed no oppressive regret, yet he said
kindly that he hoped to keep his guests at least until next morning. In
the cool of the day they would see the cemetery; they would return, and
eat the evening meal. It would then be time to sleep. And with a gesture
he indicated the rugs and cushions, under which the beetles were now
buried like mountain-dwellers beneath an avalanche.
Nevill, still pale, thanked his host earnestly, complimented the rugs,
and assured the Caïd that, of course, they would be extraordinarily
comfortable, but even such inducements did not make it possible for
them to neglect their duty elsewhere.
"In any case we shall now eat and drink together," said Ben Sliman,
pointing to the table, and towards a servant now arriving from the house
with a coffee-tray. The dishes had been set down on the bare board, and
one contained the usual little almond cakes, the other, a conserve of
some sort bathed in honey, where already many flies were revelling. The
servant who had spread the table, quietly pulled the flies out by their
wings, or killed them on the edge of the dish.
Nevill, whiter than before, accepted cordially, and giving Stephen a
glance of despair, which said: "Noblesse oblige," he thrust his fingers
into the honey, where there were fewest flies, and took out a sweetmeat.
Stephen did the same. All three ate, and drank sweet black _café maure_.
Once the Caïd turned to glance at something outside the door, and his
secretive, light grey eyes were troubled. As they ate and drank, they
talked, Nevill tactfully catechizing, the Caïd answering with pleasant
frankness. He did not inquire why they wished to have news of Ben Halim,
who had once lived in the house for a short time, and had now long been
dead. Perhaps he wished to give the Roumis a lesson in discretion; but
as their friendliness increased over the dripping sweets, Nevill
ventured to ask a crucial question. What had become of Ben Halim's
American wife?
Then, for the first time, the Caïd frowned, very slightly, but it was
plain to see he thought a liberty had been taken which, as host, he was
unable to resent.
"I know nothing of my dead cousin's family," he said. "No doubt its
members went with him, if not to Mecca, at least a part of the way, and
if any such persons wished to return to Europe after his death, it is
certain they would have been at liberty to do so. This house my cousin
wished me to have, and I took possession of it in due time, finding it
empty and in good order. If you search for any one, I should advise
searching in France or, perhaps, in America. Unluckily, there I cannot
help. But when it is cool, we will go to the cemetery. Let us go after
the prayer, the prayer of _Moghreb_."
But Nevill was reluctant. So was Stephen, when the proposal was
explained. They wished to go while it was still hot, or not at all. It
may be that even this eccentric proposal did not surprise or grieve the
Caïd, though as a rule he was not fond of being out of doors in the
glare of the sun.
He agreed to the suggestion that the motor-car should take all three
down the hill, but said that he would prefer to walk back.
The "teuf-teuf" of the engine began once more outside the white gates;
and for the second time Victoria flew to the window, pressing her face
against the thick green moucharabia which excluded flies and prevented
any one outside from seeing what went on within.
"Calm thyself, O Rose," urged the feeble voice of Lella M'Barka. "Thou
hast said these men are nothing to thee."
"One is my friend," the girl pleaded, with a glance at the high couch of
rugs on which M'Barka lay.
"A young girl cannot have a man for a friend. He may be a lover or a
husband, but never a friend. Thou knowest this in thy heart, O Rose, and
thou hast sworn to me that never hast thou had a lover."
Victoria did not care to argue. "I am sure he has come here to try and
find me. He is anxious. That is very good of him--all the more, because
we are nothing to each other. How can I let him go away without a word?
It is too hard-hearted. I do think, if Si Maïeddine were here, he would
say so too. He would let me see Mr. Knight and just tell him that I'm
perfectly safe and on the way to my sister. That once she lived in this
house, and I hoped to find her here, but----"
"Maïeddine would not wish thee to tell the young man these things, or
any other things, or show thyself to him at all," M'Barka persisted,
lifting herself on the bed in growing excitement. "Dost thou not guess,
he runs many dangers in guiding thee to the wife of a man who is as one
dead? Dost thou wish to ruin him who risks his whole future to content
thee?"
"No, of course I would do nothing which could bring harm to Si
Maïeddine," Victoria said, the eagerness dying out of her voice. "I have
kept my word with him. I have let nobody know--nobody at all. But we
could trust Mr. Knight and Mr. Caird. And to see them there, in the
courtyard, and let them go--it is too much!"
"Why shouldst thou consider me, whom thou hast known but a few days,
when thou wouldst be hurrying on towards thy sister Saïda? Yet it will
surely be my death if thou makest any sign to those men. My heart would
cease to beat. It beats but weakly now."
With a sigh, Victoria turned away from the moucharabia, and crossing the
room to M'Barka, sat down on a rug by the side of her couch. "I do
consider thee," she said. "If it were not for thee and Si Maïeddine, I
might not be able to get to Saidee at all; so I must not mind being
delayed a few days. It is worse for thee than for me, because thou art
suffering."
"When a true believer lies ill for more than three days, his sins are
all forgiven him," M'Barka consoled herself. She put out a hot hand, and
laid it on Victoria's head. "Thou art a good child. Thou hast given up
thine own will to do what is right."
"I'm not quite sure at this moment that I am doing what is right,"
murmured Victoria. "But I can't make thee more ill than thou art, so I
must let Mr. Knight go. And probably I shall never see him, never hear
of him again. He will look for me, and then he will grow tired, and
perhaps go home to England before I can write to let him know I am safe
with Saidee." Her voice broke a little. She bent down her head, and
there were tears in her eyes.
She heard the creaking of the gate as it shut. The motor-car had gone
panting away. For a moment it seemed as if her heart would break. Just
one glimpse had she caught of Stephen's face, and it had looked to her
more than ever like the face of a knight who would fight to the death
for a good cause. She had not quite realized how noble a face it was, or
how hard it would be to let it pass out of her life. He would always
hate her if he guessed she had sat there, knowing he had come so far for
her sake?--she was sure it was for her sake--and had made no sign. But
he would not guess. And it was true, as Lella M'Barka said, he was
nothing to her. Saidee was everything. And she was going to Saidee. She
must think only of Saidee, and the day of their meeting.
* * * * * * *
Stephen had never seen an Arab cemetery; and it seemed to him that this
Mussulman burial-place, scattered over two low hills, in the midst of
desert wastes, was beautiful and pathetic. The afternoon sunshine beat
upon the koubbahs of marabouts, and the plastered graves or headstones
of less important folk; but so pearly pale were they all that the golden
quality of the light was blanched as if by some strange, white magic,
and became like moonlight shining on a field of snow.
There were no names on any of the tombs, even the grandest. Here and
there on a woman's grave was a hand of Fatma, or a pair of the Prophet's
slippers; and on those of a few men were turbans carved in marble, to
tell that the dead had made pilgrimage to Mecca. All faces were turned
towards the sacred city, as Mussulmans turn when they kneel to pray, in
mosque or in desert; and the white slabs, narrow or broad, long or
short, ornamental or plain, flat or roofed with fantastic maraboutic
domes, were placed very close together. At one end of the cemetery, only
bits of pottery marked the graves; yet each bit was a little different
from the other, meaning as much to those who had placed them there as
names and epitaphs in European burial grounds. On the snowy headstones
and flat platforms, drops of rose-coloured wax from little candles, lay
like tears of blood shed by the mourners, and there was a scattered
spray of faded orange blossoms, brought by some loving hand from a
far-away garden in an oasis.
"Here lies my cousin, Cassim ben Halim," said the Caïd, pointing to a
grave comparatively new, surmounted at the head with a carved turban.
Nearer to it than any other tomb was that of a woman, beautified with
the Prophet's slippers.
"Is it possible that his wife lies beside him?" Stephen made Nevill ask.
"It is a lady of his house. I can say no more. When his body was brought
here, hers was brought also, in a coffin, which is permitted to the
women of Islam, with the request that it should be placed near my
cousin's tomb. This was done; and it is all I can tell, because it is
all I know."
The Arab looked the Englishman straight in the eyes as he answered; and
Stephen felt that in this place, so simple, so peaceful, so near to
nature's heart, it would be difficult for a man to lie to another, even
though that man were a son of Islam, the other a "dog of a Christian."
For the first time he began to believe that Cassim ben Halim had in
truth died, and that Victoria Ray's sister was perhaps dead also. Her
death alone could satisfactorily explain her long silence. And against
the circumstantial evidence of this little grave, adorned with the
slippers of the Prophet, there was only a girl's impression--Victoria's
feeling that, if Saidee were dead, she "must have known."
The two friends stood for a while by the white graves, where the
sunshine lay like moonlight on snow; and then, because there was nothing
more for them to do in that place, they thanked the Caïd, and made ready
to go their way. Again he politely refused their offer to drive him up
to his own gate, and bade them good-bye when they had got into the car.
He stood and watched it go bumping away over the rough, desert road,
pieces of which had been gnawed off by a late flood, as a cake is bitten
round the edge by a greedy child.
They had had enough of motor-cars for that day, up there on the hill!
The Caïd was glad when the sound died. The machine was no more suited to
his country, he thought, than were the men of Europe who tore about the
world in it, trying to interfere in other people's business.
"El hamdou-lillah! God be praised!" he whispered, as the yellow
automobile vanished from sight and Maïeddine came out from the cluster
of black tents in the yellow sand.